


With a Word

by B_does_the_write_thing



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_does_the_write_thing/pseuds/B_does_the_write_thing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oxford Professor Nicholas Gold is a world renowned linguist. So when a librarian reaches out with pictures of a interesting scroll with never before seen language structure - he is intrigued.</p><p>Too bad for Professor Gold that Belle French is not exactly what he expected, the scroll is actually a magical artifact, and his ancestors were druids. So, when Gold finally gets his hands on the scroll and reads the worlds out loud, he finds himself suddenly in possession of magical powers, running from those who would control him to have the power for themselves and accompanied by Belle who refuses to let the scroll or him out of her sight.</p><p>-Winner of Best Mr. Gold in the 2017 T.E.A's-</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: As an American, I am woefully out of my element in my attempts to write anything remotely English, so if you see any idiosyncrasies, please let me know so I can correct them.

With a world-weary sigh that betrayed his fifty plus years on this earth, Professor Gold let his eyes fall shut as his right hand rose slowly to massage his throbbing temple.

Oblivious to his growing ennui, the graduate candidate before him continued on cheerfully. “And as I thoughtfully provided my reference materials as well as my bibliography with my paper, I consider myself a forerunner for the program.”

“Tell me,” Gold glanced over his reading glasses to fix his gaze upon the graduate student. “What are your thoughts on the hegemony actions being taken by China?”

The graduate student cocked his head slightly. His olive skin was glistening slightly, possibly from nerves or hormones. He shrugged noncommittally. “Peripheral languages are often assimilated into the ideals of stable bilingualism- youth today are less interested in their heritages than in fitting in to the community at large.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Gold gave the young man a tight smile. Beaming back at his own cleverness, the poor fool didn’t even see Gold’s right hand slowly strike his name off the register. Youth, Gold thought darkly as the young man saw himself out of the office. Fools, the lot of them.

“Professor Gold?” came the tonal drone of his long time assistant from the phone intercom system. Gold insisted upon the old fashioned system over the instant message system to which the rest of his peers had switched. “Are you ready for the next one?”

Repressing a growl of frustration, Gold stabbed at the intercom button, “Send them in, Victor.”

“Yes, sir,” came the dry but obviously amused response. “By the way, you received a rather interesting missive from the states- I’ve set it aside for you to review.”

“Bloody Yanks,” Gold grumbled through his teeth as his hands crept up to bury in his hair. He stabbed at the button again, “If it’s another invitation to speak, you can throw it in the bin with the rest of them.”

“Relax, Professor,” Victor retorted calmly. “It’s nothing as flattering as that. Some librarian in Maine is trying to translate something- looks interesting enough to pass muster.”

Gold was unable to respond, a new candidate was opening the door and he was forced to quickly remove his head from his hands lest he seem anything but wholly intimidating.

“Wow,” the newcomer was nervously exclaiming. “I literally cannot believe this is actually happening! Interviewing with the Professor Nicholas Gold- just wow!”

Gold gritted his teeth as his right hand slowly drew a long straight line through the latest name on his list.

 --

That evening, Gold poured himself a fifth of scotch as he stared blankly at the office before him.

Fifteen graduate candidates.

Every single one a disappointment after the other.

To make matters worse, the entire day had been wasted. His paper on sociolinguistics lingered somewhere between publication and the fireplace, the grading from his current graduate class still had to be completed since he didn’t trust it to anyone beside himself and his email and correspondence were piling up. 

Thumbing through the stack of mail on his desk, Gold rifled through the university newsletters, which Victor always stuck in to remind him of his duties as a Fellow of Oxford. On the bottom, a nondescript but battered manila envelope had a post it note stuck on it. Plucking the yellow note from its position on the mail, Gold read the nearly indecipherable lettering of his assistant:

_Interesting. Not what it seems._

Tossing the note in the bin, Gold put down the other letters and let his fingers rest against the folder for a moment. It was light- nothing but one or two sheaths of paper in it with a postmark from somewhere named Storybrooke, Maine. Ridiculous name, Gold scoffed privately but he found himself lifting it from the desk nonetheless. Settling himself in his favorite armchair, he took another sip of his scotch, savoring the bite that crawled down his throat and instantly warmed his extremities.

Drawing out the paper, Gold noticed it was in fact two pages. One was a photocopy of some text, blurred as if it had been a photograph before it had been reprinted and the other was a thick piece of cream stationary. Gold’s attention was diverted as he felt the unmistakable feel of ink upon his fingertips. Glancing away from the poorly lit photo, he turned the paper over to discover it was handwritten. Pushing his glasses back upon his nose, Gold frowned down at the letter. It was uniform calligraphy, neat and easily readable. Before he realized it, he was reading it instead of his usual skimming technique for appeals such as these.

_B. French_

_112 Stevenson Road_

_Storybrooke, ME 04001_

_March 27, 2015_

_Dear Dr. Nicholas Gold,_

_As head librarian of the Strorybooke library, I have spent the last two to three years cataloguing our large collection of early English tomes. Most of these were donated to the library by one of our local patrons, an English national. He also left the library his personal writing desk- in which I recently discovered a scroll of some interest._

_I have sent out a few letters to your fellow peers in the linguistics field. Unanimously they were unable to offer any assistance but one suggested I write you to inquire of your assistance in translating this scroll._

_I have attached a photocopy of the scroll- the first few lines of it in fact. If you are at all able to offer any further assistance, please let me know. Your help will be most welcome as I have devoted a large part of my time and energy over the course of this past year into deciphering this mystery._

_I think you’ll agree with me when I say there’s nothing quite like it…_

_Thank you for your time. You can reach me at the address above or at either of the below._

_B. French_

_Head Librarian_

_Storybrooke Public Library_

_207-786-2355 Ext: 3_

_Bfrench@sbpl.com_

 

Rereading the impertinent letter once over, Gold shook his head at the brevity and pretentiousness of such a request. “Ridiculous,” he muttered to himself as he tossed the letter down but he stilled as his eyes suddenly focused on the photocopy, now barely sticking out from behind the letter. An odd symbol was in the upper right hand of the page, where the usually decorative first letter was typically designated in most early English and Latin texts. This however did not show the usual trademarks of the Christian church- in fact- it looked almost Gaelic in origins.

Curiosity spurned despite his annoyance, Gold took another sip of his scotch as he stared down at the blurred image. The lines swirled in the growing heat of his office. The April winds still gusted outside and the spring showers made the entire college have a permanently damp smell to it. Victor had obviously been interested in this- but the young man had a decided interested in the Frankenstein. The mutilation of a language such as this would be of extreme interest to the morbidly humored doctorate of languages.

Finally, he felt himself rising from the armchair to move back towards his desk. His computer flickered to life with the push of the mouse and before he could talk himself out of it, Gold was keying in the email address.

_To: bfrench@sbpl.com_

_From: Ngold@allsouls.ox.ac.uk_

_French,_

_I have received your letter of request for assistance in translating a scroll discovered in someone’s hand me downs._

_Despite your initial brevity, I reviewed the included copy of what I deem to be the scroll in question or an attempt to capture the likeliness of Bigfoot in the Maine wild. I am still unclear but for the sake of professionalism, I will deem it is indeed a photo of the scroll in question._

_In my current schedule, I have little time available for outside work such as this. However, my graduate assistant, Doctor Victor Whale, has shown interest and has the availability necessary to carbon date and began preparations of this document. Please mail it to the address provided below at your earliest available time. Documents such as these should be stored properly to keep them from being damaged and as I am unfamiliar with the Storybrooke Public Library, I can only assume it lacks the tools to handle these kinds of documents._

_Nicholas Gold, PHD, CBE, FBA, FRSL_

_Professor of Linguistics_

_All Souls College_

_Oxford University_

_Oxford OX1 4AL, United Kingdom_

As he clicked sent, Gold leaned back in his chair and took of his glasses. Rubbing his eyes, bloodshot and dry from the late hour, he tried to rationalize going home. Instead, he found himself pouring a second glass of scotch and beginning to start reviewing the graduate papers before him.

The photocopy and letter lay where he had left them.


	2. Chapter 2

Shutting the door of the rental car closed behind him, Gold once again looked down at his phone, double checking the address he had arrived at was indeed correct. After verifying he was indeed in the right place, he looked back up at the building before him. It had not changed from the odd clock tower structure that straddled the corner of the two main intersections of this excuse of a town. Frowning up at it, he didn’t even notice he was no longer alone until the other person spoke.

“Beauty, isn’t she?”

Turning at the Irish accent, unexpected in an American small town such as this, Gold found a young man, dressed in what looked to be a law enforcement uniform, standing beside him. Glancing back at his rental car, with the prominent out of state license plates, Gold internally sighed.  “What can I do for you, officer?” he asked, already reaching for his passport.

The younger man shrugged, still looking up at the clock tower which was oddly stuck at 8:15. “Sheriff,” he corrected.

“Sorry?” Gold paused, slipping his sunglasses off his nose to better look at him.

The Sheriff turned to him with a self deprecating smile. “Sheriff Graham Humbert,” he introduced himself, reaching out a large hand for Gold to shake. Gold instead looked down at it, slightly confused before he finally reached his own out. The Sheriff gave a large jerk of his arm, which Gold assumed must be the American way of shaking hands before he dropped it. “Scottish?”

Gold nodded, flipping his passport out. The Sheriff perused the paper, glancing back up at him and nodded. Gold put it back into his coat pocket. It was already December, and it was as cold here as it had been back in Oxford. Still, the young man beside him only had on a leather jacket and seemed perfectly at ease. Gold expected his full faced but well trimmed beard might also help keep the Sheriff warm.

“Here on business?” the Sheriff asked casually. He hooked his thumbs into his skinny jeans, looking over the rental car, whistling as he got a closer look at it. “Aston Martin? What did you say you did again, Mr. Gold?”

Gold knowing the man was simply doing his job, but this was exactly the reason he had not wanted to rent this particular vehicle. He sighed and took his sunglasses off.  “Professor at All Souls.”

Humbert’s eye grew wide but he nodded gruffly, eyes returning to the car between them. “Oxford. That explains a bit. What brings you to Storybrooke?”

“Business,” Gold repeated tersely. “I have business with a Mr. French.”

The Sheriff looked puzzled, glancing back at the library behind them. “Moe’s clear across town,” he said. “Game of Thorns is closed today, if I remember right.”

It was Gold’s turn to be confused. “I understood Mr. French is the head librarian here,” he replied, gesturing to the library. Here, he paused, gritting his teeth as he remembered the increasingly volatile email chain that the two of them had exchanged in the past month. “We've been discussing a project.”

At this information, a look of understanding dawned on the Sheriff’s face, and he grinned ruggedly. “If you’re looking for the library,” he said, nodding. “Well, you found it.”

Gold resisted the urge to audibly sigh. “Yes,” he managed. "I had gathered that from the sign.” He gestured to the small plaque just underneath the clock tower structure itself, it nearly blended into the white cream building. However, the stillness of the street had given him pause. “Is it open?”

“Oh yea,” the Sheriff nodded, pursing his lips as he stared back at the closed door that they could see from their current position on the curb. “It’s not noon yet,” he explained, gesturing around them. “Docks have early hours and late shift, so that’s why the town’s so dead right now.”

Gold didn’t really care to learn why the town of Storybrooke was anything and he pulled his cell phone back out to glance over his calendar. He wasn’t due to meet with French until quarter to one but he had made decent time. “Is there a place to eat around here?” He asked.

His companion nodded, pointing down the way towards a distant white building a few blocks down. “Granny’s,” he said. “Best lunch in town.”

“We’ll see,” Gold replied noncommittally. “Thank you for the suggestion.” He turned to leave, double checking to make sure he had his suitcase in hand.

Before he had gotten as far as the sidewalk, he heard the Sheriff call out. "Isn't French joining you?”

That was precisely what he did not want. French had proved an increasingly obnoxious thorn in his side ever since Victor had slipped him the letter that had started this transatlantic nightmare of a project. The American librarian had been loathe to share the precious documents that had inspired him to send out a plethora of letters to the entire linguistics community for help.

He had, after a terrible day of interviewing potential graduate candidates for the All Souls program, let himself be intrigued just enough to email requesting the documents to review at his own leisure. French’s response had been….curt.

He believed the exact words he had used were “not on my or anyone else’s life” would he endanger the documents by shipping them half across the world. Gold’s reply insinuating that French did not know much about geography if he presumed England to be half way across the world had not been taken lightly. Things had quickly spiraled from there, until Gold found himself agreeing to let Victor arrange a flight to Boston during holidays to look at the documents himself. 

Having to meet French was not high on his list of things he wanted to do, and he had been looking forward to putting it off as long as possible. However, the Sheriff was grinning at him, toeing his boot in the slush on the curb.

“I’m sure French already has lunch plans,” Gold attempted, glancing back down the road. He hadn’t eaten since the excuse of coffee he had gotten at the rental car company. He did not hold him hope that this diner would have tea, but at least they would have something to warm him. Perhaps scotch if he was lucky.

“Never known French to turn down Granny's,” the Sheriff said, shrugging his slender shoulders. He was a tall man, beaded and rugged but he was still slight as a stick, his legs looking like twigs in those ridiculous trousers of his.

Gold wavered, torn between wanting to get food before having to deal with the likes of French and not putting his foot in it with an officer of the law, who for some reason seemed intent on seeing him inside. He wondered idly if the Sheriff was a simple curious fellow but nature, or if he disliked the idea of visitors roaming his strange idyllic town.

“Come on inside, get out of the cold at least,” the other man offered, moving to pull the library door open. At the sudden chimes and bells that announced someone’s entrance, Gold briefly closed his eyes in defeat before moving forward. His return flight left first thing in the morning, and if fate was kind and these documents proved to be nothing more than a hoax, he could even possibly catch the return flight to London that evening.

“After you,” the Sheriff said, gesturing into the cozy dim interior of the library’s entrance hall. Gold nodded, entering as the Sheriff followed closely behind him. The marble interior was spotless, and Gold allowed himself some small enjoyment as he tracked slush in from outside. Their footsteps echoed in the large space as they neared a small open door, a cheery sign propped up reading _Welcome to the Library_  with roses and thorns all around it.

Gold spared it a withering look, realizing that this was one of _those libraries_. One geared towards children, suburban women, and those more interested in printing their tickets to events or using the computer to surf the web without having to pay for internet at home. He hated these places, and he already was roasting alive in his wool overcoat.

He stopped by the main desk, looking around the cheerfully lit space with all the stacks neatly arranged in every direction. The children’s area was at the forefront, a riot of colors and shapes, with all stacks at waist height and not a inch taller. He stared at it for a minute, as the Sheriff went to the desk, ringing the call bell repeatedly. Gold shot him a look, which the Sheriff returned with a wink.

He heard a clicking of heels quickly approaching, turning to find a woman emerging from the stacks. Her face was covered with a stack of books that she was barely holding on to. The books were teetering in every direction, no doubt not helped by the gravity defying heels the woman had on.  Moving quickly, he grabbed the stack from her, twisting to deposit them on a nearby table.

“Graham!” came the even more unexpected but well known accent of the land of Australia. The woman before him, hands on her hips, was stunning. Her hair was a riot of browns with reds running through out the curls, her face was heart shaped and twisted in a comical frown, highlighting her cupid’s bow mouth and her striking blue eyes. “Stop ringing that thing! How would you like it if I showed up the station and started ringing your bell incessantly?”

Gold thought privately that the Sheriff would probably not mind that at all. 

She was also, he found to his growing uneasiness, looking at him now with polite confusion. “Sorry, what was that?” she asked. Gold realized he had said his thought out loud, and turned to find the Sheriff grinning at him as well from where he was leaning against the counter.

“Nothing,” he said, clearing his throat.”Just admiring the facilities.”

“Belle,” the Sheriff said, gesturing to him. “This is Professor Nicholas Gold.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Gold said, moving to take her hand. She seemed surprised, staring up at him in slack jawed amazement as he pressed her slight one between his. He found himself already correcting his earlier thoughts on the shortcoming of Storybrooke.

“Was’t expecting you until after lunch,” Belle said in confusion, as he finally released her hand. She took a closer look at him, and he internally berated himself for not shaving that morning. He let her hand fall back, smiling nervously. He hadn’t had much experience beside the occasional flirtation, not since the divorce. 

“I was just going to eat at Granny’s,” Gold said, looking over at the Sheriff to verify this was the correct name of the establishment he had suggested earlier. “Perhaps you would care to join me?”

Belle seemed taken aback. Fumbling, he hurried to rectify the situation. "Mr. French is welcome to join us as well," he added hastily. "He had mentioned having a rather unforgiving schedule this morning."

He heard a faint chuckle and he looked over to find the Sheriff trying to cover it up with a cough. “Sorry,” he mumbled, holding up a hand. However, when Gold returned his attention to Belle, he found her frowning at him.

“Mr. French?” She asked curtly.

Gold nodded, feeling a bit at a loss. She had been perfectly friendly a moment ago, if not a bit confused. Now, however, she seemed closed off, even her arms had crossed themselves over her chest defensively.

Gold cast about for a possible solution, perhaps she was friendly with the impossible man. "Perhaps we could bring him something back?"

“I don't think that's necessary,” Belle interrupted. “I'll eat here but maybe Graham here can go with you. He seems to be enjoying himself.”

“Oh come on, Belle,” the Sheriff was saying, moving towards her with his hands spread apologetically. “Just having a bit of fun was all.”

Gold stared at the two of them, brow wrinkled in confusion until in one horrifying click it fell into place.

“You’re B. French?” he blurted.

Belle turned to glare at him with an icy look. “I am,” she repeated. “You of course are Professor Gold. I would know you anywhere.”

His knee jerk reaction to embarrassment had always been to become defensive, and he quickly availed himself of his usual responses to situations such as this. “Seeing as you made every effort to get me here,” he sniped. “I would hope so.” She opened her mouth but he continued. “Now, if the Sheriff doesn’t mind, I will be going to get something to eat. I’ll be back for our prearranged meeting where I presume the aforementioned documents will be presented?”

Belle was glaring at him, but he ignored the vitriol. He had just made a very large ass of himself, and he needed a drink.

Finally, she replied. “Yes, I have an hour available. After that, I’m afraid you’ll have to schedule another appointment with my staff.”

“Oh, is Mary Margaret volunteering over here too?” The Sheriff asked cheerfully. “She’s been doing some great work down at the hospital, but they don’t need as much help these days.”

Not understanding or caring to about what was being discussed, Gold continued as if nothing had been said. “Perfect. I will see you then. If you’ll excuse me…”

Without a look back at Ms. French, he headed calmly to the door. Every step felt like a mile, with his heart thudding in his chest as his blood pressure spiked to a dangerous level. He faintly heard the Sheriff saying goodbye to Belle, hurrying to catch up with him.

“Sorry about that,” he sighed, pushing the outdoor open for Gold to exit. “I didn’t think it would go down quite like that..”

“I see,” Gold grumbled, walking pointedly away. He spared a quick look at his rental, noticing it was untouched and hoping to hell it stayed that way so he could get the hell out of this hellhole as quickly as possible.

“Hey, I feel bad about it,” the Sheriff sighed, falling in line beside him. “Let me at least buy you a drink.”

“That’s not necessary,” Gold grunted, continuing forward.

“Granny’s doesn’t serve liquor,” the Sheriff advised him. “Some draft beers and wine but nothing like you need right now.”

Gold stopped with a sigh. “Fine,” he conceded, thinking of Ms. French and her haunting eyes. He would need a good stiff scotch if he was going to head back into there after that dismal performance and expect to get any work done. He also planned on sending a scathing text to Victor about not giving him the proper information on Ms. French, for surely his assistant had known she was in fact a woman?

Gold had nothing against women. Some of the most brilliant minds in his field were females. Hell, his last two wives had been leaders in their respective careers. He just hadn’t realized- he had just assumed! Which of course was half the problem. He was just as infuriated with himself as his assistant. 

“To the Rabbit Hole, then,” the Sheriff announced, heedless of Gold's internal diatribe. He headed down the next side road.

Gold simply glanced back at the library, the clock still stuck at 8:15 and followed after him.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time he stumbled back into the library, Gold felt much better about the situation, all things considered. Humbert had been more than accommodating, picking up the two rounds they had imbibed instead of lunch. The younger man had been prone to smalltalk, but Gold had managed to distract him with a game of darts.

Now, however, he was fifteen minutes late for his appointment with French. Not that it mattered much, he reminded himself, glancing over some clever forgery wouldn't take long. 

After stopping at the bathroom to wash his hands and pop a breath mint, Gold headed reluctantly back into the fray. The library was warm and cheerful as he had left it but as he made his way to the front desk, he wondered where the librarian had gotten off too. He had expected her to be waiting for him, seething. Instead, it looked as if she meant to flip the tables and make him wait.

He found that intriguingly promising.

“You’re late," came a voice from behind him. He resisted the urge to turn around and instead calmly placed his suitcase on the desktop in front of him. 

“Ah, Ms. French, there you are,” he greeted. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

“Not out here we won’t,” she replied. “I have a room prepared in the back.”

At this, he did turn. She looked ready and raring for an argument. Her chin was tilted at him, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyebrow raised in challenge. He thought her magnificent and exasperating all at the same time. He nodded. “Lead the way,” he assented, gathering his suitcase.

He followed her to the far end of the library, trying to keep his eyes from straying. The scotch was not helping. Humbert had mentioned French was good at her job, but protective of her work. Gold had been more concerned with trying to forget the way he had made an arse of himself to listen, but now he wished he had pried a little more into her backstory. Not every librarian knew how to properly store manuscripts. He was curious as to what lengths she had gone.

Taking a jangling key ring out of her skirt pocket, French leaned down to fiddle with the handle. Gold, feeling a rush of blood in his cheeks and elsewhere, looked hurriedly away. Squeezing his hands into fists at his sides, he reminded himself that he was a scholar, not a schoolboy and to get himself in order immediately.

French, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. Straightening, she twisted the knob and revealed a staircase descending down into the basement. Without a word, she disappeared down the steps, leaving him to follow slowly behind her. It was dim, but French made her way down the stairs quickly, her steps echoing back to him in the shadows.

When he arrived at the bottom, she had already opened another door and stood beside it, waiting for him. “Your hands are clean?” she asked him, glancing at the appendages in question.

He nodded, resisting the urge to bury his free hand into his coat pocket. The other tightened on his suitcase handle. “I used the facilities in your lobby. Now, if you don’t have any other qualms?”

He stepped forward to enter the room, but French blocked him. Startled, he glanced down at where her pale hand rested on his overcoat. Her eyes had the barest hint of uncertainty, and she looked as if she was on the cusp of saying something. He waited, hoping like hell she couldn’t feel how fast his heart was racing.

“I know I’ve asked a lot of you,” she said, looking as if this admission pained her. “It’s just... I can tell this is something special. I need to make sure I'm doing everything by the book here."

It was as close to an apology as he was going to get. Still, it didn’t quite make up for the cross Atlantic flight, the smell of hamburgers that seemed to linger in the air here, and the embarrassment he had endured just an hour ago. “The manuscript?” he requested, picking up his wrist to check the time.

French’s hand dropped away and if some part of him mourned the contact, he ignored it. The woman before him was madding enough via digital correspondence, he could only imagine the headaches she could cause while in the same room. The sooner he saw this thing, the sooner he could leave and put this whole nightmare behind him.

Entering the room, she flipped on the light switch by the door, revealing their new surroundings. Despite himself, he was impressed. The room was pristine, especially for a basement. The walls were whitewashed and primed, the floor tiled in monotone checkers that gleamed in the fluorescent lighting of the one large light source hanging directly over the only table in the room.

There was no vents from what he could see, and he was glad he had kept his coat on as the room was cool. French seemed untroubled, moving to remove a lid from a small brown box that sat on the table. He joined her, keeping his face neutral less she see how surprised he was by this extremely professional set up.

“Simmons College, top of my class in Library and Information Studies,” French said, her voice defensive. “If you’ll move to the left?”

He did, making a mental note to call his contacts in Boston. Simmons College was a very well respected preservation program, but it did not answer the question why someone with such a background would be working here of all places. Or how this small town library could afford a preservation room in the first place.

French carefully lifted a browning scroll from the depths of the box, depositing it gently before him. Hanging him a pair of latex gloves, she put her own on as he put his briefcase on the floor and followed suit. The scroll was barely the size of his forearm. There was some fraying at the edge and what appeared to be a burn mark on one end. It was also much older than he had initially supposed it to be, looking more Egyptian than Roman.

French reached over to unroll it, just as he moved to do so himself. Their hands smacked together, breath catching in both their throats as the scroll wobbled underneath their joint touch.

“Allow me,” he said. Miraculously, she did, but she stayed at his side, hovering. With one hand carefully placed on the bottom edge, he began to roll it carefully out, feeling for snags and listening to any potential signs the scroll was about to rip. “It’s parchment,” he said, fingers itching to touch the soft hide. “I couldn’t tell in the photos.”

“You’ll understand now why I didn’t want to ship it,” French added. He ignored this jibe, eyes moving over the odd lines and marks he had seen in the few photographs she had provided.

This was no joke, no fake. He could tell in the way the parchment shone in the unnatural light, the way the ink had faded, dull brown and slightly flaking.

“Blood,” French pointed out.

“I can see that,” he remarked, bending down to see the markings closer. He could smell the scotch on his breath as it wafted back to him. Perhaps two had been unprofessional, but as adrenaline and excitement spiked through him, he could barely felt the alcohol’s effects at the moment. Instead, there was a buzzing in his brain, a rush of interest, a pull to know the secrets hidden in plain sight.

“My God,” he breathed, lifting the parchment up to the light. “It’s fascinating. Gaelic possibly?'

'How this survived in a desk drawer for decades, I have no idea. This needs to be taken to a museum immediately,” he decided, rolling it back up. “You’re setup here is admirable, but this could hold the key to a whole new language, a new history. If something were to happen to it, you would be denying the world a chance to learn more about the past!”

French laid a hand on his arm to still him. He glanced down at her hand, feeling warm all of a sudden. Here he stood in Maine of all places, a infuriatingly intelligent and beautiful woman beside him and a possible career making discovery in his hands. If he hadn’t known that she despised him and that the scroll may still end up being nothing more than a skilled forgery in the end, he would have thought himself dreaming. "I don't think that's a good idea," she said slowly. 

“You called me in for my opinion,” he told her. “My professional opinion is that this belongs in the hands of those who can devote countless hours to its study and safekeeping.”

“Did you believe me?”

He furrowed his brow at her. “Did I what?”

She frowned at him. “When I told you I had something special, did you believe me?”

He paused, glancing back down at the parchment. “No," he admitted. 

French nodded. “Neither did anyone else. Your colleagues that did not immediately dismiss me referred me to you. I hoped you might be able to help trace the language structure because no one actually thinks this is anything but some contrived attempt for attention.'

'I asked you here to help translate it,” she said. "If I can find out what language it is, I can better direct my inquiries. I took my photos to the Harvard Museum, and was laughed out of the main hall before I could even speak to anyone.”

Glancing back down, he let his eyes trace the shape of the scroll one more time before he handed it back to her. She nodded, shoulders lowering in relief, before she deposited back into the box. “You were right to not remove it from this area,” Gold admitted, checking his watch. Their slotted hour was almost done, but Gold’s fingers itched to hold the document once again. He had been so taken by the feel of it, the unknown that he had not had time to properly look at it. “I’ll book a room in town, come back tomorrow morning to start my work.”

Looking up from his online search for hotels, he found French staring at him, mouth agape.

“What?” he demanded, feeling self conscious all of a sudden.

“You’re staying?” she asked in disbelief. 

“Why on earth would I-” Gold cut his own tirade short. Groaning, he shook his head as he snapped off his gloves. “Ms. French, we have at our fingertips the chance of a lifetime. However, I have no interest in becoming a laughing stock or the boy who cried wolf. I will study the scroll, and formulate a translation if at all necessary. Until then, I find no reason that this cannot stay between the two of us.”

French’s face transformed into a smile that lit up the entire room. Indeed, her excitement was so infectious, he nearly smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holler to ifishouldvanish for catching a typo! <3


	4. Chapter 4

When French arrived at the library the next morning, he was already there waiting for her. She stumbled to a pause, the hand holding her umbrella faltering ever so slightly as she twisted her wrist to check the time.

“You’re early,” she said in surprise when she returned her attention to him. “The library doesn’t open until ten.”

The clouds overhead had been drizzling since he had woken up around four in the morning, a victim of jet lag despite his best intentions to stay awake as late as possible the night before. He hadn’t even made it to dinner before he had succumbed to his exhaustion. Still, she didn’t need to know that.

“Good morning to you too,” he said, moving aside to let her unlock the front door.

French hurried forward, nearly hitting him in the head with her striped umbrella. He ducked to avoid it, trying to hold on to his black one as the wind picked up. “Sorry!” she exclaimed, but in her attempt to apologize, she managed to smack him in the chest with the large tote she had slung over her shoulder.

He instantly doubled over, as several pounds of what felt like large books knocked the air out of his lungs. “Oh!” she cried, abandoning the door as she tried to once again apologize. “I’m so sorry, I -”

Gold held up a hand, trying to straighten up without wincing. “Just open the door,” Gold wheezed.

She nodded hurriedly, and within another few moments, they were both were in the large marble foyer of the library. French locked the door behind them. She shook her umbrella out, and leaned it against the side of the front edifice to dry out. He followed suit, although he closed his so not to potentially maim an unwitting patron.

They were both slightly damp from their little charade out front, and they eyed each other uncertainly in the dim light coming in from the windows. French looked as beautiful as the day before, which he found annoying. Even with damp hair and muddy heels, she still looked ethereal.

That is until she opened her mouth.

“We don’t open until ten,” she said bluntly, crossing her arms over her chest. “So, don’t you dare start to complain about having to wait in the rain.”

Slightly taken aback by this attack, he stared back at her blankly. “I know that,” he said finally. “However, you had mentioned you were getting here early to categorize some new arrivals.”

“Oh,” she said flatly. She tugged her tote further up on her arm. “Well… in that case.”

She led the way into the library, unlocking the door to the main area. She hurried to turn on the lights, and the dark room flickered to life once more. Putting down her bag, she pushed her damp bangs out of her eyes before she began to unbutton her jacket.

Tearing his eyes away before his interest could announce itself in another embarrassing display of stupidity, he started towards the staircase to the basement. “I’ll be downstairs,” he announced. He had done some research yesterday afternoon, but not enough. He wanted a better look at the artifact, on his own without the distracting Ms. French hovering over him.

“Would you like some tea?”

He paused.

A glance over his shoulder revealed the librarian had come around the desk once more, and now stood awkwardly behind him, wringing her hands nervously. If anything, he knew he should decline, go downstairs and start work without any caffeine or anything else addling his brain.

Instead, he found himself nodding. “Tea would be...nice,” he said.

French nodded. “I usually take it in my office,” she explained as she led him towards a small room behind the front desk. It was evident that this was her office, from the plants nestled carefully amidst piles and piles of books. There were framed pictures on the wall and cluttering her desk. French hurried to liberate a chair from a stack of paperwork, dusting it off before gesturing for him to sit. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and before he could protest, she had disappeared.

Left to his own devices, Gold sat down slowly, placing his suitcase in his lap primly. His fingers splayed over the cover, nervously tapping as he gazed about the room. The space was well lived in, but not unpleasantly so. A diploma from Simmons College took up the back wall entirely, and though his eyes were not what they used to be, he could see the familiar latin words that highlighted her accomplishments.

Ivy tendrils dripped down from a hanging pot in the far corner, dangling over a smaller bookcase which was filled with knickknacks and snow globes. He saw pyramids and igloos, familiar european landmarks and not so familiar brightly colored globes that looked tropical.

Before he could get up to peruse them closer, French returned, holding out a delicate white and blue patterned tea cup to him with the air of someone who was trying not to look like they had just hurried from somewhere else.

“Thank you,” he said, taking it from her. It smelled bitter but there was also the slightest hint of something sweet. “I should have mentioned I take my tea black,” he said, staring down at it.

“Yours is black,” French said, settling herself behind her desk. “I prefer a bit of sugar in mine.”

“Ah,” he said, raising it towards her in a rough salute. He sipped it, finding it surprisingly decent.

When he glanced up, she had a smug grin on her features before she hid it behind her own teacup. He cleared his throat, casting about for a topic of conversation and his eyes fell back on the bookcase in the corner. “You travel often?” he said, nodding towards it.

French twisted in her seat, and when her eyes fell upon the snow globe collection, her smile turned bittersweet. “No, actually,” she said, returning her attention to him. “My mother was the traveler. Those were her’s.”

“But you did move here from Australia?” he asked casually.

She nodded. “When I was very young,” she admitted. “I don’t remember much outside of Storybrooke.”

“Your mother never took you on her travels?”

It was the wrong thing to say. He knew it as soon as he said it. French’s entire frame grew smaller, and she looked down at her tea as if to find the answer in its depths. “My mother died when I was a child,” she said softly. “My father had some family in the states, so we moved here after she passed away.”

He never knew what to stay to these kinds of things. Sorry was a decent standby, but it wasn’t as if he had anything to say sorry for, he hadn’t known. As he cast about for a proper response, French took pity on him.

“Where did you end up staying?” she asked.

“Granny’s Bed and Breakfast,” he said, thankful for the new topic. His tea was rapidly cooling and he took a large swig of it. “Not to be confused with Granny’s diner.”

French smiled and he felt rather proud for that quip. He was tempted to linger, but his cup was nearly empty now and he had things to see to. He drained the last of his tea, placing the cup on her desk and standing. “Thank you for the cup,” he told her. “I did not trust what the Inn referred to as tea but yours was…”

“Refreshing?” French supplied helpfully.

“Adequate,” he said.

“Right,” French nodded, but her walls had gone back up. She handed him the key to the preservation room from her keychain. “Well, if you need anything, I’ll be here.”

He let himself out as she returned to her computer. For the rest of trip downstairs, he internally berated himself for his continued ability to put his foot so far into his mouth that he was going to actually swallow it sooner or later.

Letting himself into the room, Gold soon had the scroll back out. His gloved hands smoothed it out, tracing the crinkles and lines from its age. The writing was as alien as it had been the day before, but-

He paused.

The top rune, the one he had thought may be celtic in origin, was in fact familiar. He closed his eyes, blinked rapidly and returned his attention to the scroll to find, the entire thing was actually readable.

He dropped it, letting it flutter back to the table. English words stared back up at him, not Old English or Shakespearean, but words that he could have read in the excuse for a paper here in Storybrooke. A angry buzzing started in the back of his brain, and before he knew what he was doing, he was ripping off his gloves and striding to the door, parchment in hand.

Moments later, he stood in the doorway of French’s office. She had her head bent over a book, skimming something as her other finger tapped idly, counting out the syllables possibly or singing a song to herself.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, striding forward and tossing the damn thing on the book in front of her.

French moved to pick it up before realizing what it was and dropping it with a squawk. “Gold!” she exclaimed, staring up at him in horror. “What are you doing?”

“You switched it out!” he growled. “All that nonsense about keeping it between us!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” French yelled back, standing up from her seat.

He let out a cold laugh. “You’re good, I’ll give you that,” he sneered. “With your mini skirts and stripper heels-”

“Professor Gold!” Belle exclaimed, cheeks flushed as her eyes widened in outrage. “Have you gone completely insane?”

“Couldn’t even bother to trace the original language,” he continued heedless of her anger. “You just wrote a bunch of hocus pocus down in English! Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That you could get full credit for this discovery and cut me out completely?”

French looked down at the parchment in confusion. Taking a tissue from her desk, she picked it up between her forefinger and thumb, peering at it. After a moment, she looked back up at him with a furrowed brow. “Gold,” she said slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s the same as it was yesterday.”

He barely hesitated before ripping it out of her hands. She cried out again, and the noise of something tearing split the room. As French exclaimed in horror, he cast a jaded eye back upon the parchment and found…

The runes were back. As alien as ever.

“Get out!” French was yelling, already picking up the phone. “I’m calling Graham, and you had better believe I’m pressing charges. You just destroyed- Yes, hello, I’d like the Sheriff, please. No, I don’t- It’s Belle, Jack. Just tell him to call me when he gets back then!”

“It was in English,” he murmured to himself, staring down at the blood in confusion. He turned with it hand, walking out of the room. French called out for him to stop, but he didn’t hear her. As he walked, the words shifted and swirled and within two feet of the office, the words were in English once more.

“I’m losing my mind,” he murmured to himself, hearing Belle hurrying up behind him.

“Give that back to me this instant!” Belle demanded him. “You’ve done quite enough damage!”

As quickly as they had revealed themselves, the words vanished and the runes were back. Gold stared down at them, ignoring the furious librarian who appeared to be on the verge of homicide. A thought occurred to him, a crazy one but between the jet lag, and the uncertainty and the oddness of everything, he found himself lending it some credence.

“Close your eyes,” he told French.

“I’ll do no such thing!” she protested, reaching for the parchment. He twisted out of her reach, knowing she was too afraid of ripping it further to make a grab for it.

“I swear I’ll hand it back over to you, but just close your eyes for a minute,” he said, and if the tone of beseeching surprised her, it surprised him even more.

Still glaring at him, she crossed her arms over her chest and exhaled forcibly. “If I do, you’ll give it to me and then leave?” she demanded.

He nodded, mouth too dry to answer. His heartbeat sounded off in his chest, and he noticed he was shaking ever so slightly. This was not him, some faint part of himself was reminding him. This was not behavior of an All Souls professor, what in the world was he even thinking-

He knew the exact moment when she closed her eyes because the English reappeared once more. Self doubt disappeared and the voice inside his head went quiet, as if stunned into silence.

“Listen, and tell me if this makes any sense at all.”

He began to read.

_Let there be peace in the East, so let it be._   
_Let there be peace in the South, so let it be._   
_Let there be peace in the West, so let it be._   
_Let there be peace in the North, so let it be._   
_Let there be peace through all the Worlds._   
_So let it be._   
_Hail spirits of this sacred land._   
_Spirits of the high skies_   
_Spirits of the dark earth_   
_Spirits of the open seas_   
_You who offer us freedom, nourishment and rebirth._   
_As our ancestors knew and honored your power, so do we now._   
_Welcome Brother Gold to the fold of Llew._   
_We have been expecting you._

 

“Gold?”

He hadn’t realized he had stopped reading, but the runes had fallen back into place. His ears were buzzing and his skin felt too tight, too hot and he pulled at his tie as he tried to remember how to breath. The lights were flickering, and he had the beginnings of a headache thudding in his temples.

“It’s too hot in here,” he gasped, wiping sweat from his brow. “Why is it so hot in here?”

“Gold….”

He ignored the repeated murmur of his name. He continued to grip the parchment in his hands, fear coursing through his veins as he stared down at the runes, and somehow, inexplicably, could still read them though they were no longer in his native tongue.

“Gold!”

At this, he raised his fevered gaze to stare at the woman beside him. French stared upwards in stunned amazement. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling to see what she was looking at, only to find a snowflake in his eyelashes and another land in his open mouth.

Above them, a hole had appeared in the ceiling and the drizzling rain from that morning had turned into perfect snowflakes, falling slowly to dust their upturned faces.

French lay one hand uncertainty on his forearm as her other lifted out to catch flakes in her palm. They melted away, but more replaced them as her hair crystallized and her breath came in puffs.

“I don’t understand,” he said hoarsely. “What- how?”

“You said you were hot,” French whispered, shaking her head. “Then, it just….started to snow.”

His hands felt numb, and his mind seemed fried. He simply stood there, face upturned as the snow fell down around them, the parchment forgotten between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of the parchment's message was taken from the Druidic Naming Ceremony, with some omissions and an addition at the end. If you are at all interested, please let me know and I'll share the site that provided the ceremony information. 
> 
> As always, if you see anything I missed as far as Brit-picking, please let me know!


End file.
